The Dead of Winter by Chris Priestley

Author:Chris Priestley
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2010-01-31T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

And so it was Christmas Eve. I awoke to the sound of knocking and immediately felt my whole body tense with the same fear and trepidation that I had felt the previous night.

But it was only Edith. I stared at her with profound relief and my expression must have amused her because I saw she blushed at being looked at so intently.

‘You must have been dog tired, sir,’ said the maid.

‘Sorry, Edith?’

‘You forgot to turn your lamp off, sir.’

I nodded sheepishly, embarrassed by both the show of fear it might reveal and by the waste of oil.

‘I’ll just go fetch you some warm water,’ she said, picking up the jug from the washstand.

As Edith got to the door, she put her hand on the handle but did not turn it. She looked back at me as I stretched and yawned.

‘Are you quite recovered from your accident, Master Michael?’ she asked.

‘It was just a scratch. I’m fine, thank you, Edith,’ I replied.

She blushed and hurried from the room. As soon as she left, it felt suddenly colder and I lost no time in getting dressed and going downstairs for breakfast.

I ate staring ahead at the tapestry curtain hanging at the other end of the room, and as soon as I had finished I could not resist walking over to it and pulling it aside to reveal the portrait.

My heart skipped a beat as I did so. Although it was an almost unrecognisably healthy and well-dressed version of the woman I had seen outside the previous night, still it was so clearly the same person.

The liveliness and vigour that the painting portrayed was so utterly different to the lifeless thing that walked these marshes. What did she want with me? What could she possibly want with me?

I was walking back to my room after breakfast, when Charlotte slid out from the shadows by the doorway that led to Sir Stephen’s tower wearing a deep green velvet dress, the colour of wet moss.

‘Michael,’ she said with a warm smile.

‘Yes, Charlotte?’

‘Sir Stephen wishes to speak to you.’

‘He does?’ I replied.

‘Yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘He wants to talk to you – in private. He is in his study waiting for you. I shall take you to him.’

I nodded but was suddenly tongue-tied. In private! I was filled with trepidation about being left alone with my unpredictable guardian. Charlotte moved closer and placed a hand on each of my shoulders.

‘I love my brother, Michael,’ she said. ‘I only seek to protect him. If that makes me seem harsh sometimes, then I apologise.’

I was about to say that there was no need, when she continued.

‘I would ask you not to excite Sir Stephen unduly, Michael.’

‘I will try not to,’ I said, more than happy to comply.

‘Very well. Come along,’ she replied, turning and walking away.

I followed Charlotte and we entered that part of the house from which the tower sprouted. It was clear even to my untrained eye that we had entered a much more ancient part of the building.

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